Her Reward in Glory

After watching Alzheimer’s slowly steal my grandmother’s identity, we are mourning her. Hospice informed us four days ago that she was “actively dying,” passing on to Glory the same active way she lived. Mom’s been by her side since Monday morning when the memory care center first found Grandma non-responsive.

Grandma’s done that to us before. Caused the phone calls to jump around her family, full of speculation that the end was fast approaching. And then she’d come out of it, sometimes even before we could drive the twenty-five minutes to be with her. Part of me thought she’d pull it off this time, too.

How can I share what a precious woman she was with these tears clouding my eyes? I am a part of her. Every time I look at my hands, I see hers. Our bumpy “old lady” veins, our perfectly-oval nail beds, our strong hard nails.

The only time I’ve ever canned was with her. She’d come to Nigeria, West Africa to visit our missionary family. I’m pretty sure I was glad to help only because I could be with her. Otherwise, I would have rather been out climbing in the guava trees.

She could do all the things a grandmother is supposed to be able to do. On the night before my wedding, she was staying with us. Because of the upswept hairstyle I was having done early in the morning, I needed to wear a button up shirt to the salon. The only one I could find–an old one of my brother’s–needed a button sewn back on. I had so many things to do, I asked Mom to sew it for me. I can still see the look on Grandma’s face. She was aghast, thinking I didn’t even know how to sew a button on!

There are other kinds of memories, then hard to hear, now tinged with sweetness. The thank you note I’d sent for Christmas money … torn and thrown away with an accusation that I’d been stealing from her. The trips she made to ask questions at the desk in the first care center … minus a few necessary clothing items. All of them not Grandma herself, but the disease.

And she is free of all that. Totally free. Free like we can’t even fathom. She’s no longer trapped by her body or by her mind. I can almost picture her walking to Jesus, seeing her first husband, my Grandpa Ernie, and her dear second-love, Leonard. I’m so happy for her! So these are tears of joy.

The kids and I have been with her every day after school. I’ve given them the option every day and, every day, they want to be with Grandma P. when she goes to Jesus. We left a mere four hours before she left for heaven.

Joshua’s first reaction, when told that Grandma was probably dying: “Well, Jesus must have her house ready. And she’ll get to walk again!” The faith of a child.

I picked them up from school today and mentioned that maybe we’d take half an hour to clean up the house before we went to see her. They could earn some extra allowance by helping. Andrea, in a choked up voice, said, “But what if we miss it? What if she’s gone when we get there? I wouldn’t do it for a thousand dollars!”

These kids have loved her, though she’d been fading their whole lives. These last days, she lay motionless, mouth hanging open, each breathe gurgling … and yet my sweet children would hug her. Kiss her cheek. Lay a cool wash cloth over her fevered brow.

Hospice left supplies for the kids to do one last art project with her. Mom took Grandma’s frail hands, pressed them to an ink pad, and then to a poster. The kids framed their hands around hers. So they’ll always remember.